New Girl Ficlets
by Inkyfingers2
Summary: A series of ficlets originally posted on tumblr. All are Nick/Jess focused and they're posted in no particular order or following any timeline. Chapter ratings range from K-M.
1. Chapter 1

_Quick author's note before we dive in...These were originally posted on my tumblr in connection with an image or gifset so I'd highly recommend you check those out to get the full experience from these fics. The link is in my profile page. Cheers and thanks for reading!_

* * *

_"...the moment she walked through the door."_

Schmidt says a potential roommate has responded to the craigslist ad, so please be normal, presentable and show initiative. He expects all of them to have at least 5 questions prepared for the interview portion of the visit. She'll be arriving around 2pm. Coach balks at the 'she' part, Nick doesn't care either way.

It's 2:30 and there's a knock on the door. Nick is lounging on the couch with a beer watching baseball; Coach just got back from a pick-up basketball game and is making a protein shake. Schmidt checks his reflection in any shiny surface all while going over the itinerary: Visual assessment, if she passes we move on to introductions, then tour, and finally sit-down interview.

He opens the door to let the potential in. Nick doesn't look over, doesn't care enough to. Doesn't really care who lives here as long as they're not a psycho.

Well introductions have been made, so she passed Schmidt's visual assessment which makes him kind of curious…not enough to look yet. He knows he's being rude, but hey, haven't you heard, he doesn't care, plus Rizzo is up to bat. He goes to take another swig of beer and that's when her scent hits him. It's cinnamony and sweet and seems to sink into his skin. He sits up, moving the beer to his other hand and tries to shake off the scent. He takes a healthy swig, hoping the bite of the IPA will overpower it.

It doesn't.

"Nicholas, would you please stand and introduce yourself," Schmidt's precise and aggravating voice pierces through the loft. "Please don't be alarmed, Jessica, he may look like a homeless old man, but I assure you he's our age and is employed…if only as a lowly bartender."

"Shut-up, Schmidt!" He says as he stands and turns.

"Hi, I'm Jess!" A small pale hand extends to him.

His first irrational thought is that this is the type of girl idiots fall in love with instantly. The long brown wavy hair, smooth unblemished skin, huge googly blue eyes, full red lips, orangeish-red summer dress.

Not him though. He's no dummy. Not gonna fall for any of that crap. He flops back on to the couch after the obligatory "I'm Nick," and Schmidt moves with her to the hallway to show the bedrooms/bathroom, one of the douchebag's hands hovering over her lower back.

The urge to watch her walk away is disconcertedly strong and he immediately quashes it by watching (but in no way paying attention to) the game. He hears her exclamation of delight when she sees the empty room and winces…he needs another beer.

Ten minutes later he's got Schmidt sitting next to him (uncomfortably close, he might add), and Coach in the corner on the couch; Jess in the tan single-seater across from them. They've arrived at the interview portion.

"Alright, Nick, let's show some panache here. You may ask the first question."

Ah crap. He hadn't thought of any questions. His eyes drift to the TV which is swiftly turned off.

"No distractions, Nicholas."

Sighing heavily, Nick moves to sit at the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. She's sitting patiently, eyes wide and eager, a small smile on her lips as she meets his gaze. Something twists within him when her blue meet his brown. It's a feeling he can't identify and something whispers in his mind, 'idiot, idiot, you're an idiot.'

He's suddenly overwhelmed by the situation, but the emotion that wins out is anger and he clings to it, allowing it to swallow up any other ridiculous thoughts or feelings. Maintaining a neutral expression he glares at the coffee table, hoping it'll produce a legitimate 'potential roommate interview' question. One of Schmidt's ridiculous artsy books is opened on a black and white image of a cat on a haystack in a barn ("It is a portfolio detailing the relationship between animals and bucolic life, Nicholas!" "It's a $75 coaster, Schmidt.").

"Umm…Do you have any pets?"


	2. Chapter 2

_"You're the man I want."_

He slips in to bed behind her, being extra careful with the IV and monitoring lines attached to her (the image of her pale face and chest rising shallowly with all the various wires snaking around her body and the machines incessant beeping will give him nightmares for weeks to come - not to mention the heavy, knee-buckling guilt that this is all his fault).

Jess, half-awake, hums contentedly as his warm body comes in contact with her back. She hadn't been able to get warm since being admitted…or, to be honest, since stepping out of the car at the campsite on their ill-fated Old-School Thanksgiving Adventure. There hadn't been time for someone to grab a pajama set for her so she'd been lying in discomfort, feeling like death for nearly 11 hours now. The only moment she had felt at ease was when her 4Dfamily plus Cece surrounded her bed, and the only moment she had felt warm was when Nick's large hand enveloped hers. But they had reluctantly left 2 hours ago, and Nick had been forcibly removed an hour after that. With him back, the last frigid hour she spent miserably alone melts away.

He pulls the blanket over his legs, removing any unnecessary obstacles between her body and his. His right arm smoothly curves under the pillow Jess's head rests on, her dark hair flowing in every direction. He's too afraid he'll disrupt one of the wires or IVs to wrap his left arm around her body to press her tightly against him the way he so desperately wants to, so he leaves it lying awkwardly along his body.

After a moment's pause, he buries his nose into her hair and whispers, "I'm so sorry," over and over again, his lips brushing the back of her neck.

Without hesitation, Jess reaches behind her, blindly searching out his hand. She discovers it lying along his hip and grabs it firmly, pulling it up under her left arm to press it against her chest; so he can feel the strong and steady beat of her heart.

Nick's apologies cease as he concentrates on the heat and feel of her chest beneath his hand._She's alive. She's ok. She's here and she's not leaving. _His inner monologue is so loud he misses what Jess whispers to him. "What, Jess?"

She squeezes his hand. "Don't leave me, Miller," she repeats quietly.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't just mean the bed, Nick. Don't leave me to get lost in your head either. This isn't your fault, it was an accident."

He sighs deeply, his warm breath against her neck lulling her closer to sleep. "Say it, Nick," she says tiredly.

"Accident. Not my fault," he repeats against her skin, then, "Please sleep, Jessica."

Her neck stretches as she bends to press her lips to his fingers. "Goodnight, Miller."

The smile that crosses his lips is involuntary as a quick memory flashes across his mind. He presses a kiss to the back of her head.

"Goodnight, Day."


	3. Chapter 3

_"Do not challenge me..." _**Rated M**

The night had been a perfect combination of laziness and Schmidt wanting to clear out the beer fridge; an ideal recipe for 'True American' shenanigans.

While the boys set up, Jess raced to her room for a quick wardrobe change. She called it her True American uniform; the shirt with the 'Where's Waldo' type sleeves, a navy blue flower scarf wrapped around her head like Rambo and a smiley face apron to boot. Although this time around, instead of the hot pink tutu she was rocking her patent black skirt and tights.

Unfortunately, she lava'd herself early by accident (not her fault, she had been hit with the twirls after Nick did his 25 push-ups for 25 cents in the name of George Washington; sleeves rolled up, back taut, small grunts coming out. She's only human and her balance has always been defective); so Schmidt had branded her with a '9' ("William Henry Harrison, the 9th US President, serving the shortest tenure in US presidential history. You will wear this number so that all may see and remember your shame, Jessica Day.")

The game eventually devolved into just her and Nick sitting on couch cushions on the floor trading bets. Winston had gone to Daisy's and Schmidt was sleeping at Elizabeth's.

Jess was sitting Indian-style on the thicker cushion, her skirt fanned out around her bare legs; her tights had gotten snagged on some jagged wood in the chair she had been doing the Yankee Doodle dance on, so she had dejectedly ripped them the rest of the way and pulled them off (the room had gone weirdly quiet and when she had looked up it was to see three pairs of wide eyes watching her carefully). The moment had been broken when Nick threw two beer cans at Schmidt and Winston in the name of 'The Union.'

The bets had started out innocent enough ("I bet you can't get a beer without stepping in lava," "You just want me to get you a beer," "If you can't do it just say…number 9") but had steadily turned more risqué as the beer in their systems worked its magic ("Bet you can't touch one foot to the couch and stay out of the lava," "You just want to see me do a split," "…So").

After proving that she could in fact keep one foot on the cushion and one on the couch without touching the lava in an impressive display of flexibility, Jess settled back on her cushion across from Nick. His eyes were wide and dark, lips parted in an awed expression, clearly turned on by the display.

"No matter what Mr. Miller, I won't be going in the lava again. I'm winning this round." Jess had been extremely peeved by her early lava slip-up. It was a rookie mistake and she was better than that. Her competitive side had taken over after getting endlessly heckled throughout the game by her three roommates and she was taking this one to the bank, baby.

Nick's eyes were concentrated on her legs as she adjusted her skirt, a slow smirk making its way across his lips.

"I'll bet I can get you in the lava in less than a minute."

"Please," Jess scoffed before stopping at the expression on Nick's face. His eyes were all hooded and dark and when he noticed her eyes shoot down to his mouth he deliberately licked his lips.

Jess, already feeling twirly and bold, was struck with an idea and decided to answer his bet with a caveat that would guarantee her victory.

"Okay. I'll take that bet." Nick grinned and his hands made a move for her face, clearly about to pull her in for a kiss.

"But," she leaned away from him, "You are only allowed to use your mouth…"

She met Nick's eyes, and knew what she saw in them was reflected in her own. Lust, excitement, and challenge.

He didn't move for several seconds, eyes darting from her eyes to her lips then down to the rest of her body. Coming to a decision he rose to his knees then leaned forward. He remained perched on his cushion, hands and feet avoiding the 'lava' surrounding them. He brought both arms to her sides, caging her in, but careful not to touch her. They smiled at each other; well it was more like they bared their teeth at each other, their eyes promising the other was going to lose the bet. Or maybe they were both about to win, Jess couldn't tell.

Both of their breathing had picked up and Nick gazed down at her mouth. He leaned forward and Jess closed her eyes, anticipating his lips, but her eyes popped open and she inhaled quickly as he bypassed her mouth and went to her neck, his nose pushing aside her hair as he found that one spot below her ear that drives her absolutely insane.

Her first instinct was to lean back at the pressure he was exerting on her neck, and the wave of dizziness did not help but she persevered and remained upright, if not slighting leaning to the left to give him better access.

His lips moved from one side of her neck to the other and without noticing, she had placed her hands behind her (to better support herself she rationalized). Suddenly his lips were on hers and their tongues were sliding together, but it was a short moment before he pulled away, leaned back, and then ducked down to place a similar kiss on her inner thigh where the skirt left it uncovered.

Jess gasped and caught her upper body from leaning all the way back once again but her lower half seemed to have a mind of its own. With Nick's tongue tracing tantalizing patterns on her inner thigh, she shifted out of Indian style and brought one foot up flat on the cushion, while the other stretched out, heel resting on Nick's cushion, still not touching the lava floor.

"You're just lucky I ripped my tights earlier, mister," she said, her voice soft and low.

He glanced up at her, "I would have gotten them off," he practically growled, "…with my teeth. I've thought about it. A lot."

With that, he moved under her skirt and his tongue slowly traced her most sensitive area.

"Ni-" Jess couldn't get his whole name out as she held her breath, concentrating on the sensations he was provoking.

He was very good at it, too good. But it wasn't enough, Jess needed more. The only problem…in order to get more, she'd have to lose…she hated losing. She was just about to grit her teeth and steel her resolve when his tongue did this magnificent slow circle and she was trembling all over. Her arms unsteadily held her up, her right leg had shifted to rest over his left shoulder, her heel digging into his upper back, the left leg was still stretched underneath him, her foot pressed flat into his thigh where he was on his knees, still on his cushion (damn him).

She whimpered as a second slow swipe of his tongue circled her and she knew her resolve was crumbling. What was more important? Her twirliness or her pride? Well, obviously it was her pri-

"Oh my God, Nick," she breathed as he had suddenly changed tactics and picked up speed with his tongue and the flicking and circling. Her arms gave out and she fell back off the cushion onto the carpeted floor, breathing fast and heavy.

Luckily for her, Nick didn't stop to take the time to gloat.


	4. Chapter 4

_"Your fatal flaw...communication."_

He discovered a quiet apartment after getting home from work. They had closed early because of the freak weather LA was experiencing (seriously, snow flurries?) and the bar had been dead. Clearly, people were smart enough not to go out in those conditions, or (more likely) they were too scared of the cold.

Stomping his feet of the excess water he took off his soaked jacket, which was definitely not meant for winter weather. Jess's bedroom door was open, her room dark and empty, which didn't make sense because she had to teach tomorrow; unless schools were canceled due to the weather. That made sense.

With his initial misgivings fading, he moved into his room to plug in his phone. It had been dead for hours; it was clearly busted, seeing as it only really worked when it was plugged in. Bending over his desk, he grasped for the cord. As he got his phone plugged in, a burst of noise coming from the kitchen startled him into slamming his knee on the desk.

"Son of a-"

Schmidt stampeded into his room. "Where have you been, Nicholas?!"

"What the hell Schmidty?"

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!?"

"Where I always am, the bar!" He yelled back, massaging his busted knee.

Suddenly, his phone began vibrating and several chimes were ringing indicating missed text messages and voicemails and Nick's stomach dropped.

"What's going on? Where's Jess?"

"There's been some sort of accident."

The pain in his knee was instantly forgotten as he held his breath.

"Some freak mudslide in Portland. Jess can't get hold of her mom."

Nick's heart was in his throat. "Where is Jess?" He repeated, his voice sounding strangled and urgent.

"I don't know," Schmidt replied helplessly. "She's not on the roof or anywhere else in the building, but her car and keys are still here!"

"Jess is out there?" Nick waved his hand behind him, where a rain-snow mix was pelting his windows."Why didn't you stop her?!"

"I wasn't here when she found out, Cece told me!" Schmidt practically shrieked back, his eyes wide, full of concern and fear.

Nick was already pulling his coat back on, shoving passed Schmidt to the front door, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"You stay here in case she comes back or calls," he shouted over his shoulder.

* * *

It took him 15 minutes to find her. They were the longest 15 minutes of his life.

She was walking a road she'd mentioned many times before, her 'thinking' road, a mile long stretch running along the main street that led to her school.

Her gait was fast, shoulders hunched up around her ears to defend against the bitter cold, her hands stuffed deep into her coat pockets.

He slammed the breaks, the car sliding an extra ten feet passed her on the slick road.

He rounded the front of the car, stepping quickly through the puddles of slush. Squinting through the snow and wind whipping into his eyes he saw her open her arms as he ran to her.

They were both breathing heavily, enveloped in each other's arms. He couldn't get her close enough, burying his face in her hair bunched at the crook of her neck.

The wind whipped at their coats, the snow swirling around them; she was trembling, whether from emotion or the cold he wasn't sure; he just held her tighter.

She pulled away and he met her eyes. They were red-rimmed and dull, her emotional exhaustion and fear plain to see. He brought his forehead to hers gently, closing his eyes against her pain, hoping to absorb it all into himself.

He didn't say, "I'm sorry," or "It's gonna be okay," or any of those empty phrases usually said in a situation like this; the sort of stuff that was really only white noise compared to the paralyzing fear and heartbreaking scenario's running through one's mind. Nothing he could say would help. He concentrated on offering any comfort and hope his touch could provide.

Besides, they've never been very good with words.


	5. Chapter 5

_"I want him to like me. In fact, I want all fathers to like me. I wonder what that's about..."_

Jess plans out the road trip to Portland for her dad's 70th birthday and it looks like they're taking the scenic route (which means 20 hours of driving).

As soon as they hit Redwood Highway, Jess rolls down her window, singing at the top of her lungs, "The Redwood Highwayyyyy, I'm gonna ride it, all night long!" They reach their second scheduled stop in Crescent City, CA around 9pm (the first stop was San Francisco..great burritos).

They're staying in a dingy motel called the 'Crescent Moon,' and that night, they get drunk off of 3 bottles (two for him, one for her) of $6 wine they find in the most bare bones grocery store known to man.

Jess always wakes up before him; she's on that teacher sleep schedule while he's functioning on the bartending one. He wakes to an empty bed and a piece of paper stuck to his face (he must have rolled onto it at some point). It tells him that she went for a walk along the beach.

He rolls out of bed, feels the slight chill in the late morning air as he throws on his white Henley and a pair of jeans. He can't find his black hoodie, but is too hung-over to care and pushes open the creaking screen door. It snaps behind him as he sinks into the wooden lawn chair just outside their window.

He stretches his legs out and squints into the sun. He can make out the small hill speckled with long grass that slopes down into the small city center; their room unfortunately faces away from the ocean. Sighing, he puts his elbows on the arm rests, hoping this hangover fades once he eats something. Thoughts of food quickly dissipate when his left hand brushes against the hard lump in his pocket.

Ok, so this road trip has a dual purpose, both involve her dad, but only one is known to Jess.

The ring box is like a 50 pound weight in his pocket, He's been carrying it around for two months and it seems like it's getting heavier with each passing day. He swears there's gotta be a weird crater like dent in his upper thigh where it's been pressing.

He's scared shitless. He's already had one disastrous; 'I slept with your daughter, and she means a lot to me' talk with him; how the hell was he supposed to have a, 'I'm in love with your daughter and I want to marry her, may I have your permission' talk with him? Would he chase him again? He had brought a protective cup for his junk just in case. Would he say no? He's probably gonna say no. Who's the idiot who made up this tradition in the first place? Why do fathers even exist? Who needs 'em? Why does he want Bob Day to like him, to approve of him, to love him, to find him good enough for his little girl?

_Oh my god, listen to him, he sounds like some kind of ninny._

She comes over the hill and the sun hits her in a way that makes it look like she's glowing; it's so alarmingly beautiful that it hits him like a punch to the stomach and his hand moves involuntarily to press over the aching organ. He feels a weird combination of relief and dread (relief because she's back in sight and will soon be within touching distance; dread because it means they're gonna hit the road soon, which means getting closer to zero hour with her dad).

He's unable to take his eyes off of her as she walks through the tall grass towards him. Watching her with a sort of paranoid concentration, he can feel his eyebrows pull together as if he's trying to figure out an extremely difficult puzzle; which he kind of is.

He can't understand how he got here. How this woman is with him; trusts him, relies on him. How, when she leaves for work in the morning, she always comes back at night…to him. She laughs at his stupid jokes, smiles when his weirdness takes the wheel…she loves him…and it's nuts.

She looks almost ethereal with the sun illuminating her and her dark hair blowing about wildly. Is this the moment? Should he do it right now, at this run-down northern Californian coastal motel? He can feel the ring box burning a hole in his pocket but his left hand doesn't move.

"What's wrong?" She asks once she's standing in front of him and blocking the sun from his eyes. Her cheeks are rosy from the cool morning breeze, her bangs windswept to the right and her long dark hair curling around her shoulders.

It takes him a second to realize she's referring to his hand on his stomach.

"Just starving." _My body can't handle how beautiful you are._

Her eyes, which seem impossibly bluer to him due to the sun and the lavender-colored sweater she has on (with his black zip-up hoodie over it), light up with enthusiasm. She has her arms around her back and she grins as she pulls a brown paper bag from behind her.

"1 bearclaw and 1 banana for my monkey-bear."

This time the pressure in his stomach _is_ from hunger and he reaches out for the brown bag eagerly.

"Jess, you are…_amazing, gut-bustingly beautiful, too selfless to comprehend, someone I know I can't live without, the love of my life_…the best…but don't call me that."

She smiles down at him in way that says _"I'm gonna keep calling you that,"_ out loud she says, "I'm gonna go pack up."

Nick nods, mouth full and fingers sticky from the already half-eaten pastry. Her skirt swishes as she moves passed him into the room; he turns his head to watch the black skirt bounce along the back of her stocking-clad thighs then faces forward again.

Whatever feeling was gripping his stomach has traveled higher and seems to be centered on the left side of his chest now, where his heart is.

He hears Jess moving about the motel room, humming 'Life is a Highway,' under her breath.

He can wait. He will wait. Jess is a fiend for tradition (to be honest so is he). And for once in his life he was gonna get it right. It's gonna be perfect…for her.

He just hopes Bob Day won't kill him. He also hopes she won't say no.

He thinks the second possible outcome would be worse.


	6. Chapter 6

_"If you don't like looking at my face, Jess..."_

They're in Chicago, his brother's wedding is tomorrow and he had promised her he would shave. He was the best man, she'd said, look nice…clean. He had dodged every effort she'd made to get him to shave it in the past few weeks (one particularly creative time involved getting tied up with her yarn and some ribbons but that had quickly evolved into her getting tied up instead with his beard triumphantly scratching against her inner thighs).

So he finds himself sitting on the toilet in his mom's bathroom, Jess has her fingers under the tap, waiting for the water to warm-up.

He alternates between rubbing his hand over his beard and sighing, shifting to look in the mirror mournfully.

"Well, pal, we had a good run."

"So dramatic."

"There were some good times and there were some great times."

"You are being such a baby."

"I'm sorry she's making me choose between her and you, and believe me, it was a tough decision."

"Oh my god."

He takes a deep breath "…..Ok, Jess. Do it. Get it over with," he scrunches up his face in anguish, bracing for the cold smear of shaving cream.

…

"Fiiiine. Keep the beard." His eyes pop open and he smiles in triumphant delight.

"Just admit it, Jess, you like the beard," he says pulling her onto his lap, his hands slipping under her gray sweater to touch the warm skin at the small of her back.

Her left hand comes up to the right side of his face caressing down his cheek, passed his jawline as she leans in.

"I love the beard," she whispers against his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

_"You're the nurse I want to wake up to…"_

He had worked four night shifts in a row due to special clients and private parties at the bar; each one finishing up around 5:30 in the morning. By day 4 he was wrecked; miserable, exhausted and hadn't seen Jess in days (she'd already left for her school by the time he trudged through the door); he'd eat the bacon she had cooked for him, shower then collapse into his bed, damp and alone.

But this morning he found himself staring down at his cold, lonely bed woefully. He missed Jess. Missed the smell of her. The way she would wrap her hands around the arm he had stretched out underneath her as he pressed his chest to her back. Missed her wild hair spread out on the pillow and the way her bangs always looked a little crazy in the morning.

They'd been trying to be considerate by not sleeping with each other; leaving the other undisturbed.

He was sick of it.

That's why when Jess got home and walked into her room she found her bed occupied by a sound asleep Nicholas Miller. He had cocooned himself in her flower print sheets, his face pressed into her pillow. He had clearly gone to bed with his hair still wet as it was in wild disarray.

She laughed softly and closed the door behind herself. As quietly as she could she began to strip.

The bed dipped slightly as she slid in behind him. There was no way she could get under the covers, seeing as Nick was pretty tangled up in them. So she pressed her chest to his back, resting her right arm over his torso and pressed a gentle kiss to where his neck met his hairline.

He was dreaming. Nurse Jessica had just dipped her sponge in the warm sudsy waters when a strange tickle on the back of his neck disrupted the scene. He'd later discover that reality was even better than the dream.


	8. Chapter 8

_"I'm not on my knee asking ya to marry me…"_

They snuck out for a private moment; walking along the road that led to the reception hall; the haze of the setting sun providing a comfortable warmth.

"You ready for this, Mr. Nicholas Miller?"

She meant the reception, the dancing, the cake, the pictures, the friends and family.

He tightened his arm around her waist and felt her grip the back of his tux. Her head leaned into the space between his shoulder and neck.

"I am, Mrs. Jessica Miller."

He meant their lives together, the house with the lawn, the kids, the future, the forever…with her.


	9. Chapter 9

_"You know, I'll be like your guide..."_

Schmidt got home about two thirds of the way through the first screening and moved quickly and quietly to his room without comment to Jess.

During the second viewing he finished the presentation he's got to give on Monday with the use of noise canceling headphones. Great, now his weekend just opened up.

As the movie began for a third time, he decided (in order to preserve his sanity) to do a modified cross-fit workout in his room. That lasted a solid hour and fifteen, and as the ringing in his head dissipated (hanging upside down will do that to you) he realized they were at the scene where Johnny is accused of stealing the wallets and can hear Jess tearfully reciting every line.

Her cracked and mournful tone caused an uncomfortable pressure in his stomach. Great. Their break-up was giving him a friggin ulcer…or maybe the never-ending movie was. Either way he was granted a reprieve once he stepped into the shower, taking an extra long time on his nightly ritual of steaming, conditioning, ice bath and moisturizing.

Tip-toeing back to his (well Jess's) room, he noticed the only lights on were the sad yellow glow creeping from under Nick's (and Jess's?) door and the television emitting flickering light over Jess's sleeping face, a fourth run of Dirty Dancing almost halfway through.

Scoffing at his two idiotic roommates he entered his bedroom. How could they not have known this was going to end in disaster? He knew! Grumbling to himself as he threw on his specially ordered Egyptian cotton sleeping shirt, he lets the truth of the situation sink in. That two people, he will begrudgingly admit to loving more than even himself, were in a lot of pain right now.

And honestly….so was he. Ok, he had been adverse to the change between them and had resisted it with all his might (even tried to sabotage it, but he doesn't like to think about those Dark Schmidty days); so at first he thought the relationship had a gigantic, red stamped end date on it. But then he noticed the change in his best friend and thought maybe this thing these two weirdos had is real and is good. But it had all crumbled down and the "I told you so" he had planned on using won't make it passed his lips.

Coming to a decision, he rose from the bed and slipped on his Ugg slippers (what? Tom Brady wears them) before quietly opening the bedroom door. Standing next to the TV, he took in the image of the brokenhearted girl who had cried herself to sleep, the lights from Dirty Dancing flickering across her pale and splotchy face, glasses askew, snotty tissues everywhere. Schmidt was not immune and felt the moisture build behind his eyes but with a quick sniff he got to work.

Walking silently up to her, he gently removed her glasses, folding them up carefully before placing them on the coffee table. Next, he grabbed the two empty tissue boxes and filled them with the used and discarded tissues…without the use of rubber gloves…that's how deep he was invested in this moment. Schmidt, the OCD Clean King of Apartment 4D, was handling soggy snotty, tear-soaked tissues with his bare hands.

After filling up both boxes, he tucked one under his elbow to free up a hand to remove the empty wine glass and bottle of rosé. Throwing out the hazardous material and rinsing the wine glass, he returned to Jess with two tall glasses of water and three Advil for when she woke up. He squatted in front of her, brushing her bangs aside before leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead and extracted the remote from where she clutched it to her chest.

He froze when she shifted on the couch, tucking her hands under the pillow; a soft, "Thank you, Nick," falling from her lips.

With a sad smile, he rose, the second glass of water in hand, and made his way to Nick's room. As he passed the TV he clicked the remote, cutting off Patrick Swayze's (admittedly glorious) leap from the stage in the final dance.

"Nick?" Schmidt tapped the door, counting to five Susquehanna's (he refused to count Mississippi's because it's a trash river full of hicks and gators) before cracking the door open.

"Nicholas?" The room was silent. Schmidt took in the sad plank of wood lying where the bed should be and saw Jess's makeshift sleeping cubby next to the closet. Glancing to the other side of the bed, a broad, gray clad shoulder stuck out.

Sighing, Schmidt moved to the other side of the bed and took in the image before him. It was just as sad as the one of Jess on the couch. Before him laid a clearly brokenhearted man, asleep (or passed out), clutching a bottle of whiskey like it was a child's teddy bear, with no blanket, and dark circles under sunken eyes.

"Oh, good lord."

Setting the glass of water and Advil on Jess's desk he took a moment to plan out his next move.

"Nick, you're using a cinder block as a pillow!"

Nick's only comeback was a loud snore.

Sighing he leaned down to pry the bottle of booze from Nick's arms, unmindful of jostling him (once he passed out drunk, it was physically impossible to wake him back up). Next, he had to figure out how to move the cinder block and replace it with the pillows which were currently under Nick's butt. Moving a dead-weight Nick Miller is no easy feat. Plus he was laying so awkwardly with his back against the night stand and his feet disappearing underneath the 'bed.' He was perpendicular to how he was supposed to be laying, the dummy.

Schmidt regretted that intense cross-fit work-out as got down on his knees to lean under the plank, hands searching for Nick's ankles. Getting a firm grip he yanked the sweat-pant clad limbs out from under the wood, positioning them properly on the makeshift floor bed. He then leaned down to tug the pillows out from under Nick's ginormous butt.

"You have got to do squats with me, Nicholas, or at the very least, I know some great kettle bell workouts," he said as finally got the plaid covered pillow free, a pair of Jessica's tights dangling out from the opening. Sighing, for what felt like the twentieth time, he tugged them free and tossed them over to Jess's side of the room.

Now to get his head off concrete and on to a pillow.

"Seriously, Nick, these plaid sheets have got to go. You had them in college. They can't even be considered cotton anymore from the feel of them." He positioned the pillows behind Nick's shoulders, then grasped his left bicep from behind with his right hand, placing his other hand under Nick's neck, hoping to minimize any scrappage from the cinder block (although with that amount of stubble, he's pretty sure Nick's face has a pretty good buffer from the rough surface). With a great heave, he lifted Nick up off the cement pillow and down on to the feather encased one.

Nick grunted, startling Schmidt before a quiet "Thanks, Jessica," mumbled passed his lips as he shifted his right arm above his head (classic Nick Miller sleeping position), then sunk back to the comforting blackness of a drunken sleep.

Crouched next to Nick's sleeping form, Schmidt ran his right hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck. What he is gonna do with these two?

"Sleep it off, Nick," he patted Nick's shin before tugging the green sleeping bag out from under Jess's desk, biting back the judgmental comment, and tucked it around his roommate and best friend for over ten years.

Knowing if he left the water on the ground it'll just get knocked over, he kept it on the desk and grabbed the sharpie marker that had been hidden among the blanket folds (and had dug into his knee when he was on all fours dragging Nick's feet out). He wrote _water _with an arrow pointing diagonally to the right on Nick's left hand, then laid it back across his torso and stood.

Turning off the light, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him so as not to wake Jess.

"How's he doing?"

"Winston!" Schmidt whispered harshly. "Do not startle me like that! What is my rule when you walk the halls at night?!"

Winston released a long suffering sigh. "That I walk with wide eyes and teeth bared at all times, clothed in white t-shirts only."

"Thank you. Yet here you are either shirtless or in a black tee and no smile!"

"The worst," Winston grumbled. "But seriously," he nodded to Nick's closed door before his eyes darted to the dark lump on the couch.

Schmidt reached out to pat Winston on the shoulder but missed before Winston grabbed his hand, placing it on his shoulder. "Right here."

Schmidt sighed before he focused determined eyes on Winston.

"We've got some work to do."


End file.
